Their hotel in San Lorenzo was on the waterfront, letting the scent and sound of the ocean filter into their rooms. Moonlight snuck around the heavy blinds, while the temperate weather kept their rooms just cool enough for the opulent beds. It was luxury incarnate.

Hardison couldn't sleep.

He'd spent plenty of time with Parker, he was tired, but his mind just didn't want to shut down. This con had kept him so up on adrenaline for so long that he wasn't sure he'd actually come down off it yet. The sound of water wasn't exactly comforting, either. Not to mention that he was an urban soul through and through. Flashing lights, blaring horns, and shrieking sirens were a better lullaby for him.

He sighed, rolling over again and trying to slow down all the things in his head. Just when he felt like he might be able to, a thump on his balcony had him shooting upright. The door swung open to let Parker melt out of the moonlight and shadows. "Hardison."

He squinted at her. "Parker?"

"Can we talk?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, already exhausted. This entire job had wrung him dry. "...Sure, Parker."

She settled on the bed next to him, running her fingers over the silky blankets to etch out abstract designs. "I don't like that Eliot was going to let you die," she said quietly. She sounded upset.

"Me either, girl. Me either."

She looked at him, moonlight glistening in her eyes almost like tears. "I can't believe that he would. I'm sorry I didn't—didn't—"

"Hey, girl. Nothing for you to be sorry for." Hardison shook his head. He understood her confusion. "I don't know what was going through his head, Parker." He snorted. "I still don't."

"He's sad, though."

He looked down. "Yeah."

She curled her legs under her tightly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "But he's our Eliot. We have to be able to trust him, or it doesn't work. I want to trust him."

"Nothing stopping you."

She shook her head. "I don't want to trust him if you can't."

He smiled slightly at the solidarity. It helped, just a little. "Only way that'll happen is if we actually talk. I don't know if you noticed, but Eliot and talking—"

I ain't much on talking, Moreau.

He swallowed hard, unable to finish his sentence. Parker hummed, taking his hand. "He's like a time lock safe. Only to be opened now and then, and only with the right combination."

Hardison had to laugh. "I...well, I guess I can see it."

They stayed there for a moment before Parker abruptly bounced to her feet, heading to the balcony. "Come on, let's go!"

"Parker? Wait—did you free-climb to my balcony?"

"Yeah, of course." She waved for him to come with her outside.

"Your room is right next to mine," he said, pointing at the shared wall.

She nodded understandingly. "That's why I didn't bother to set up my rig. And Eliot's room is really close to yours, so we can both make it over there, easy."

Hardison stared at her for a moment. Maybe he had fallen asleep after all. "...Why are we going to Eliot's room?"

She blinked at him. "Because he's back now. Come on!" She disappeared to the balcony again.

"Wait, Eliot left?" He frowned. "Park—Parker, I am not going free climbing on balconies at three in the damn morning. Parker!"

He received no answer. With a sigh, he grabbed his key card, pulled on a t shirt over his sleep pants, and trudged over to Eliot's room. Parker opened the door before he could knock, making a face at him for taking the boring way. He made a face back, and she stifled a giggle. "Come in."

"No, Parker—" Eliot cut himself off as Hardison stepped in. The hitter scowled. "Why are you two here? It's three in the damn morning."

Hardison looked over both him and the room. Eliot was still dressed, his hair pulled back and mildly dishevelled. His eyes were in shadow. He was wearing the throwing knife harness he'd had back during the last time they'd faced Moreau, in DC. The knives themselves were laid out on the glass coffee table, where he was cleaning them, even though they already looked spotless.

"Where'd you go?" Parker asked, her eyes gleaming in the soft lamp light.

"None of your business," Eliot muttered. He sat on the couch, getting back to his knife cleaning.

Parker leaned in close. "Have you killed people with those knives?" she asked, morbidly curious.

Hardison felt his skin prickle at the energy in the air. Eliot froze for half a second before breathing out, controlled. "Yes."

"Who?"

Eliot ducked his head, not looking at her as the tension wound tighter in his shoulders. "Parker."

Parker knelt on the other side of the table, staring up at him. The pattern of light and shadows on her face made her look otherworldly, like marble made flesh. Neither of them seemed to pay him any attention, and Hardison felt choked off from trying to speak to them. He was more convinced than ever that this was some kind of surreal dream, and not the good kind.

"Would you still kill someone?" she asked. "If you had to?"

That sinking feeling became fully realized. "Parker!" Hardison hissed. "You can't just—"

"Yeah. I would."

As Hardison stared at him, he could feel something shiver in his chest. Eliot stared at the knife in his hands for a long moment before setting it down carefully. He locked eyes with Parker. "There isn't a safe that can't be cracked. No lock that can't be picked, no computer that can't be hacked—and no prison that can't be broken out of. But death? Dead is dead. Ain't nothing you can do to change that."

"Did you...did you kill...?" Hardison couldn't finish his question. It didn't feel real. Talking about murder at the damn witching hour—what kind of fools were they?

Eliot stared at his knives without answering.

"Is it hard?" Parker asked.

"Not as hard as it should be," he said, shoulders slumping. "When you get right down to it, people die pretty easy."

Parker withdrew a little then, quieting. The ocean swelled, receded, and Hardison smelled chlorine.

He wondered how long Eliot had been prepared to let him drown for.

They were all arrayed in silence for a moment, but Hardison could see Parker ticking things over. The silence wouldn't last, and given her vein of inquiry so far, what broke it would be about as painful as broken glass, for all of them. "Parker," he said quietly. "Maybe we should leave Eliot alone."

They both turned to look at him. Eliot's face was still back lit. Parker's eyes still caught the light. They turned back to each other, and Parker's back straightened. Her voice was low. "How easy could Hardison have died when Moreau kicked him into the pool?"

Hardison froze, his heart pounding. She couldn't have known his thoughts when she asked that. It was impossible. This really couldn't be happening—it had to be a dream. Why else was he still standing there when he didn't want to know the answer?

Eliot ran his hands back through his hair. "Seven seconds."

Hardison inhaled sharply, but Eliot refused to look at him. "There are—there are five stages to drowning. The average person can voluntarily hold their breath for about a minute, minute and a half if they're lucky. Then eventually they panic, and breathe in water, and their body freezes up their lungs, just—" Eliot held up his arms like a cage. "Thirty seconds to black out, give or take. That's...that's the line where you start to go hypoxic. At that point, wouldn't give it more than another minute. Brain damage starts at three minutes, usually, but..." He finally looked up at him. "When you got out of the pool, I was seven seconds from coming in after you."

Hardison tried to imagine his lungs just locking up until he passed out. He'd brushed the edge of it, nearly breathed in water, but hadn't actually crossed that line. He shuddered, glad he'd thought to use the air from the chair pneumatics. "Moreau's done this before," Hardison guessed aloud.

"Used to." His voice was clipped.

"It wouldn't have blown you to come after me?"

He shook his head. "Not if I waited long enough. He always liked having me play lifeguard. If he was taking the deal, he'd keep you alive."

Alive was not necessarily well. "Why didn't you—?" Okay, yes, he can logically see why Eliot didn't say Hey, I know Moreau personally. He's going to drown you for a bit but it'll be fine as long as the grift runs smoothly, trust me! He already knew why he hadn't risked walking in alone. But before then, if they'd known the history...that was really what it came down to in the end, wasn't it? "Eliot," he said quietly, "why didn't you tell us you used to work for Moreau?"

He sighed heavily, clasping his hands together and setting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't...damn it." The soft swearing was more at himself than at Hardison. It felt a little wrong, but no less than the rest of their night so far. Eliot stared fixedly at his knives, working through what he wanted to say.

Hardison sat next to him gingerly—and when had Parker disappeared? The air turned colder; he could hear the ocean outside, filling in the silence, and kept his breathing as even as he could.

"My job," Eliot rasped, then paused. He cleared his throat. "My job is to protect the team. The only way I could think of to protect you from Moreau was to take him down first."

"On your own?"

Eliot shrugged. "Didn't matter. I didn't come up with a plan that worked."

Hardison ran a hand over his face. "Still, you could've..."

Eliot was shaking his head. "I couldn't take the chance. I couldn't let any of you face him without me."

"And you couldn't risk Nate banking on that history, either."

Eliot tipped his head, conceding the point.

"Look, Eliot. If this happens again—"

"This is never going to happen again," he interrupted, voice hoarse. "I can't—"

"If something like this happens again," Hardison stressed, "how can I trust you? You haven't even said sorry, not really."

"I don't...I don't know."

"Well, think of something. We gotta talk this out, man."

"Hardison, now's not a great time," he said, still staring at the knives.

"Then when? We're taking time off after this. Leave something like this lying between us, it'll fester there. That's what my Nana always told me."

"Smart woman."

"So let's follow her advice," he insisted. "What can we do to fix this?"

"Are you still mad?" Eliot glanced at him as he frowned. "I'd understand if you were—"

"No," he said, surprised. "I don't think I am, anymore." Eliot stared at him, so Hardison stared back out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Nothing." He took a deep breath, and it shook slightly. Turning to face him, Eliot clapped a hand to his arm and squeezed. "I swear to you, I will always tell you the risks. I will not put the job before your life." Something fierce sparked in his eyes. "And I will always, always, come for you."

Everything snapped into place in that moment, and Hardison finally felt safe. It was like he'd still been at the bottom of that pool, holding his breath all that time—still waiting for Eliot to rescue him. As if the brilliance of Parker opening up to him, the panic of destroying Ram's Horn, and the satisfaction of taking Moreau down was just an oxygen deprived fantasy. Total Recall's "blue sky on Mars" bit came to mind. But it really was three in the morning on an island in Europe, and Damien Moreau was in jail, powerless to ever leave.

He collapsed into Eliot, shaking. "I thought I was gonna die," he babbled. "I thought you were gonna jump in after me and then you didn't and I thought I was gonna die."

"You're okay." Eliot held him so tight it almost hurt. "You're okay now, I promise."

"And you knew Moreau and he liked you and you can't just—people like that, they don't just like people, y'know?"

"Breathe. Breathe slower, Hardison, what the hell? Are you trying to hyperventilate?"

He managed a shaky laugh, measuring out his breathing to match Eliot's. "This has just b-been one long nightmare, man."

"Yeah. Moreau's like that." There was the weight of weary years in his words. Hardison suppressed a shudder.

He almost asked it, then. If Eliot had killed Moreau. He couldn't really blame him if he had. His explanation to Parker had clicked for Hardison in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. He knew he wouldn't ever mourn Moreau's death. But at the same time, he didn't want Eliot to be a killer. He didn't want to be even part of the reason for Eliot to have blood on his hands, and he would be if Eliot had killed Moreau. He didn't think Eliot wanted that for the team. For himself, either. There was still a difference between killing and murder, and taking out Moreau now that he was in prison would definitely be murder.

Whether or not he had killed Moreau, it had taken a serious toll on him. Leaving him alive had to be just as much of a struggle as killing him. If the niggling, terrifying thought that someday, somehow, Moreau might come for them again had taken up residence in the back of his mind, how much worse was it for Eliot? But it was Eliot's choice, either way. His choice, and his secret. He'd tell it if he wanted to. "I forgive you," he said instead. "For the not telling us about Moreau. And for the pool."

Eliot drew back to frown at him. "But I didn't apologize—"

Hardison laughed. Maybe not with the words "I'm sorry," he hadn't, but with the food and the care he'd shown and that oath he'd just made? "I'm not about to wait for hell to freeze over, man. Just take it."

Before Eliot could respond, Parker chose that moment to reappear and cover them in blankets from Eliot's bed. "Finally!" she cheered as Eliot swore, tugging the offending fabric off his head.

Of course she'd been listening in, Hardison thought fondly, backing away to let Parker try to start a very ill-advised pillow fight with Eliot. He was more surprised that she'd let them have a moment alone. Sophie must've talked to her about that sort of thing.

He loved this team. Hardison would trust them with anything.

...Make that anything except for down-filled pillows, he amended as Parker smacked him in the face.

fin